


Not Exactly a Love Potion

by glorious_spoon



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Awkward Flirting, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Stiles Stilinski, Sterek Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-08-08 10:24:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16427540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glorious_spoon/pseuds/glorious_spoon
Summary: Stiles and Derek have been rivals since first year, but the Yule Ball is coming up and somehow everything has changed.





	Not Exactly a Love Potion

**Author's Note:**

> This is for [Jade](http://fuck-ya-chickn-strips.tumblr.com/), who requested a Hogwarts AU with lots of fluff. I hope this suits!

 

* * *

 

It takes him a few minutes to notice that Scott is still talking to him, an annoyed lilt to his voice like he’s finally noticed that Stiles tuned him out ages ago. “—Stiles? _Stiles_ , are you even listening to me here?”

“Fated by the stars, doomed romance, Allison’s family is going to send you a curse by owl post if you don’t stay away from her, et cetera, et cetera,” Stiles recites without looking away from the window. On the platform, a tall, dark-haired young man is bending over his trunk, giving Stiles a frankly _phenomenal_ view of his ass in soft-looking, slightly too tight jeans.

“You haven’t heard a word I just said, have you?”

“Nope. But I still pretty much got the gist of it, right?”

Scott heaves a put-upon sigh. “I don’t know why I even put up with you. What are you looking at?”

“My future husband,” Stiles says, as the guy closes the lid of his trunk, then crouches down to offer his finger to the grouchy-looking little black owl in the cage at his feet. The owl looks vaguely familiar, like he might have seen it dropping off a package in the Great Hall at some point, but the guy is definitely not. Stiles would have remembered an ass like that. “Hey, does Hogwarts take transfer students? Because—”

He breaks off abruptly when the guy gives the owl a final gentle pat, scrubs his hand through his hair, and turns toward the train for the first time.

“Because what?” Scott asks, but Stiles can’t answer. He’s too busy trying not to swallow his tongue. Because that— holy shit. That’s Derek Hale.

* * *

Here’s the thing about Derek Hale. They are not _rivals_ , no matter what Scott says. Stiles does not have rivals unless they include Lydia Martin, who is, okay, way too far out of his league in every way to count. She keeps up a regular correspondence with Septima Vector, for god’s sake. For the _fun_ of it.

Ravenclaws. Jesus Christ.

Anyway. Derek Hale is not his rival, and he’s not his archenemy, and he is not, no matter what Scott thinks, Stiles’s star-crossed soulmate. Scott is a soft-hearted idiot who reads too many romances, and Derek Hale has been, since day one, a pain in Stiles’s ass. He’s the reason Stiles fell twenty feet off of his broom and broke his arm in that epic Hufflepuff vs. Slytherin grudge match back in fourth year. He’s been the cause of at least six separate detentions. He’s the guy who shows Stiles up in class every. Goddamn. Term. Stiles can’t stand the guy, okay.

“Right,” Scott says, sounding bored.

“Didn’t I _just_ listen to you moan about Allison for like two hours?” Stiles asks him, outraged, as the green countryside slips by outside the window. They’re slowing down as they approach Hogwarts. “You can’t even give me this?”

“I mean, it’s not like you were actually listening to me either.” Scott flips his book closed, holding his place with his thumb, and fixes Stiles with an earnest gaze. “Look, man, I realize you don’t want to hear it, but you’ve been pining after Derek for like three years now—”

“That is a completely inaccurate characterization of—”

“—and you just now noticed that you want to bang him, which is pretty sad. Because trust me, literally everyone else who’s had to listen to you bitch about him has figured it out.”

“I don’t— _bang_ him? I don’t want to—”

“You were ogling his ass until you realized who he was,” Scott points out. “I know, because you were telling me about it. In detail.”

“Key phrase here being _until I realized who he was_ ,” Stiles says, and drops his head back against the seat cushion. It’s completely unfair. Derek might have beat him to the top score the past three years running, might have tanked his hopes of Slytherin ever winning the Cup since he joined the team, but at least he’s always been a short, soft, dorky-looking kid with ears like jug handles. Now somehow over the course of one summer he’s turned into a fucking Greek god. “Just because he’s hot now doesn’t change the fact that he’s _Derek Hale._ ”

“Exactly,” Scott says, like he thinks he’s just won the argument, and opens his book again.

Stiles considers hexing him, but in the end, he chooses to take the high road. Go him.

* * *

In the Great Hall, Scott peels off toward the Gryffindor table for the Sorting and Stiles gets side-tracked by Jackson Whittemore, who has come back from break even more insufferable than he left, if that’s even possible. It’s not until after the Sorting, after a couple of shrimpy-looking first-years have joined the Slytherin table (not a great haul this year, but they still got more than Gryffindor, which he’ll be sure to rub Scott’s face in at the first opportunity) that it occurs to him to look for Derek again.

He’s leaning on his elbow, face turned toward the high table as McGonagall steps up to the front of the room. Wearing his robes, which should make him look less like a fucking teen idol, but they actually suit him now. Hufflepuff yellow isn’t anybody’s color, in Stiles’s opinion, but on Derek it’s something else. His face looks warm and thoughtful and—

Shit, _shit,_ now he’s looking at Stiles like he could sense him staring from across the room. Stiles drops his eyes, scrubs his hands on his thighs, and determinedly directs his attention toward the front of the room, where Professor Martin is saying something about international cooperation and hosting delegates and—

Wait a second, _seriously?_

“Do they not remember how it went the last time they tried to host the Triwizard Tournament?” he says out loud. Loud enough for Martin to hear him, if the stern look she directs his way is anything to go by. A titter goes through the room. Some of the first years crane their heads to look at him, but everybody else is pretty much used to it.

“Something to add, Mr. Stilinski?”

“Uh,” Stiles says. “No, ma’am, I think it sounds like a lot of fun.”

“Thank you,” she says, very dryly.

“You’re welcome.” More scattered laughter. Out of the corner of his eye, Stiles can see Derek drop his head, smiling. It’s not actually a different smile than the one Stiles is used to seeing on his face, but somehow it _looks_ different, in ways that he is not going to consider at all.

Stiles drops his head onto the table with a groan. After a few minutes, Erica reaches over and scritches the back of his neck, like he’s a cute but very stupid kitten. Annoyingly, it does actually make him feel better.

“You’re kind of an idiot,” she says.

“So I’ve heard,” Stiles mumbles without lifting his head.

* * *

The Potions room always has a lingering odor of sour preservatives, scorched chemicals, and disaster. Scott says that’s why Stiles always feels at home there, but Scott has been failing Potions for the last three years running, so Stiles is pretty sure he’s just bitter.

Anyway, this is the advanced class. It’s mostly Slytherins, a few Ravenclaws, a smattering of Hufflepuffs, and no Gryffindors that Stiles can see; Potions, as Stiles has repeatedly explained to Scott, is not an art that appeals to the Gryffindor mind. They have no appreciation for subtlety.

That’s usually the point at which Scott socks him in the shoulder, but Scott’s not here. It makes Stiles feel a little pang of loss; Gryffindors and Slytherins have had Potions together since first year, so this will be the first time he has nobody to partner with.

On the other hand, it’s the first time he probably doesn’t have to worry about his partner melting their cauldron or paralyzing them both with a careless spill, so there’s that. It looks like everybody else has pretty much paired off, so he flops onto a free seat and starts pulling his supplies out of his bag. Something sharp slices his knuckle, and he curses under his breath, yanks his hand out of the bag, and is about to stick his finger in his mouth when he realizes that it’s covered with a thick, gray, noxious-smelling substance. Armadillo bile. The vial must have shattered in the bottom of his bag, which is now leaking goo down the corner of his table. The hem of his sleeve is already soaked, and half of his Potions kit is ruined. _Great._

“Is this seat taken?”

Stiles jerks his head up to see Derek Hale looming over him, bag slung over his shoulder and a cautiously hopeful expression on his face. He still looks infuriatingly gorgeous, and Stiles’s work station, book bag, and clothes are covered in bile, because that’s just how Stiles’s life seems to be going these days.

“No,” Stiles says ungraciously, and snatches up his bag.

“Something wrong?” Derek asks. It looks like the corner of his mouth twitches up just a little, but Stiles might be imagining it.

“Broken vial,” Stiles says, indicating his bag, because, well _duh._ “I didn’t know you did Potions.”

“It’s my best subject.”

“Mine, too,” Stiles says. “I hope you can keep up.”

He means it to come out insulting, but Derek sudden sharp smile looks pleased, not insulted. And really, that’s always been the problem with Derek Hale. He treats every barb Stiles throws his way as a friendly challenge. It drives him up a wall, always has. “I hope so too.”

“Okay, well.” Stiles clears his throat. “I should go check the supply cabinet. My kit is trashed, which is just awesome, my dad’s going to kill me—”

“We can share,” Derek says, pulling out his own pristine kit. It looks brand new, or at least like he puts a lot more effort into keeping it all neat and organized than Stiles has ever managed.

“What?”

“If you want.” Derek shrugs and looks down at his kit, fiddling with the fastener. His cheeks look slightly pink, for some reason. “Just until you have a chance to send an owl home.”

There’s an ornery part of Stiles that wants to refuse on principle, but something about the expression on Derek’s face makes the impulse wilt. That, and he’s not risking his grades over this on the first day, not when Harris already hates his guts. He’s been looking for an excuse to fail Stiles since first year, and Stiles’s Outstanding Potions OWL had to feel like a punch in the nuts for him. He’s not going to mess that up.

“Fine,” he says instead, reaching for a cloth to blot up the worst of the mess. And then, grudgingly, “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Derek says, grinning as he settles onto the stool next to Stiles. “So, hey, do you—”

Before he can complete that sentence, Harris sweeps out of his office and up to the front of the room and raps on his desk sharply. The low hum of conversation shuts off abruptly as he scans the room with a cold gaze.

“I wish I could say it’s a pleasure to see you all here,” he says, “I don’t think I should have to remind you all of the fact that this is an advanced class and any misbehavior will be taken extremely seriously, but given some of the faces I see here—” His eyes linger on Stiles for a moment. His face twists like he’s smelled something sour. “I clearly do. Mr. Stilinski.”

“Sir,” Stiles says, drawing it out as insultingly as he can.

“I see that you’re unprepared. You may—”

“Actually,” Derek says from beside him. “Stiles is going to share my kit.”

Harris stares at Derek, looking momentarily wrong-footed, but his voice is several degrees less chilly when he speaks. “Is that so.”

“Yes, sir,” Derek says. It’s calm and steady, and the way his knee bumps Stiles’s as he turns in his seat doesn’t feel accidental. “It is.”

If Stiles spoke to Harris like that, he’d be thrown out of the classroom by his ear, possibly literally, but Harris just peers at Derek for a long moment, like he suspects he’s the butt of some unexpected joke, before finally nodding. “It’s your funeral, Mr. Hale.”

“Thank you, sir,” Derek says, as Harris turns back to the board. His knee is still pressed against Stiles’s.

“Thanks,” Stiles says under his breath. He was perfectly prepared to have it out with Harris in the middle of the classroom— it wouldn’t be the first time, and with his OWL scores, Professor Martin will back him up— but it’s a strange and unexpected pleasure, not to have to.

Derek’s smile has a dry, amused tilt to it. “He’s not your biggest fan, is he?”

“Not so much,” Stiles says, and finds that he’s smiling back without even meaning to.

* * *

The next class, he barely even remembers to snark at Derek when he plops right down in the chair next to Stiles like that’s where he belongs now, and Derek grins at him like he’s being funny instead of rude, and by the end of the class they’ve managed to brew a perfect Shrinking Solution despite the fact that Derek has bumped his knee against Stiles’s five separate times and brushed his knuckles across the back of Stiles’s hand while reaching for his silver knife in a way that may or may not have been deliberate. If it wasn’t completely _insane_ , Stiles would think the guy was trying to flirt with him. As it is, he’s at a loss to explain it.

It turns out that when they’re not working at cross-purposes, he and Derek make a really good team, and Stiles can’t afford to let his Potions grade drop at all this term, and, well. Derek is smart, and funny, and smells good, and there was probably some reason that Stiles has hated his guts all this time, but right now he can’t quite remember it.

He never does get around to sending an owl home to get a new Potions kit.

* * *

So, yeah, Derek Hale isn’t the worst thing in Stiles’s world. They’re not _friends_ , but they’re… civil these days. Pleasant, even. Sometimes they catch up on their Potions homework together over late-night snacks in the Great Hall. It doesn’t mean anything, other than that Derek is a good study partner who’s inclined to insomnia just like Stiles is.

“Uh-huh,” Scott says over breakfast, a month or so before the Yule Ball festivities.

“Don’t start,” Stiles says, pointing at him. “He’s a better Potions partner than you ever were.”

“Well, yeah,” Scott says, with a grin that warns Stiles he’s about to be a complete shit. “Because you never wanted to get in my pants.”

“Because you’ve melted six cauldrons since first year,” Stiles retorts, “and don’t even start, unless you want me to start ragging you about Allison. Have you guys got it on in out behind the broom shed yet? I know how much it turns you on when she hits Bludgers at you during practice.”

“No,” Scott says, but his smile turns dopey and distracted like it always does when Allison’s name comes up, which was about what Stiles was going for anyway. “I’m going to ask her to the Yule Ball.”

“Of course you are. And in the unlikely event that she says yes, her dad is going to kill you, so I hope it’s worth it.”

“It will be,” Scott says dreamily.

“If you get murdered because you can’t stay away from Allison Argent,” Stiles tells him, “I’m not coming to your funeral.”

“You should ask Derek,” Scott says, instead of responding to the goad.

“I should ask Derek what?”

“To the Yule Ball.”

“Which is in like a month, I’m pretty sure I have time to find someone _other_ than Derek Hale who’ll agree to go with me.”

“Yeah,” Scott says, “but you don’t actually want to go with anyone else, so what would be the point of that?”

“Shut up. No,” Stiles adds, louder, when Scott starts to open his mouth, “I mean it, that’s it, no more. I am not going to the Yule Ball with Derek Hale, and that’s final.”

“Okay, Stiles,” Scott says easily, and turns back to his dinner, leaving Stiles with the sinking feeling that he’s been neatly outmaneuvered.

* * *

“Hey, Danny,” Stiles says brightly a week later, dropping into the seat opposite him in a little-used corner of the library, most often frequented by amorous seventh-years looking for a little privacy and Ravenclaws studying for tests.

Danny, who is of the latter persuasion, heaves an enormous sigh without looking up from his book. “Whatever it is, the answer is no.”

“That’s hurtful,” Stiles says, clapping a hand over his chest. “That hurts me, right here.”

“I don’t care.” Danny turns a page, peers at it, then scribbles a note on his parchment, peacock quill shivering and glimmering in the candlelight. “Go away, Stiles. I’m trying to concentrate.”

“I thought you might say that,” Stiles says, “because you are an unkind person. So I brought an incentive.”

“Really,” Danny says, sounding bored.

“Yes, really. I know that you’re the one who hexed Professor Martin’s office door, and I can prove it. Come on. I just want to ask you something.”

“Sure you do.” Danny flips his book closed and looks up at Stiles, finally. “What?”

Stiles takes a deep breath. He’s giving himself away, he knows he is, but that’s why he’s here, asking Danny, instead of trying to scope out the Hufflepuffs. If he’s wrong about this, there’s not much chance it’ll get back to Derek. Danny is generally above all that. Stiles has, more than once, suspected him of being an immortal who’s disguised himself as a Hogwarts student for kicks. “You know the Yule Ball is in a few weeks—”

“I’m not going to the Yule Ball with you,” Danny interrupts.

“I wasn’t going to ask you,” Stiles says. And then, feeling vaguely insulted, “Why not? I’m cute, I know how to dance. You could do way worse.”

“I’ve seen what you call dancing. You look like a drunken Acromantula that’s been set on fire.”

“Hey. Uncalled for.”

“I’m going with my boyfriend,” Danny says. “And I’m trying to study here. What do you want?”

“I just—” Stiles takes a deep breath. “Do you know if Derek Hale is into dudes?”

Danny stares at him. Opens his mouth, then shuts it, then says, “Stiles, I already knew you were dense, but this is a whole different level.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“ _Seriously?_ ”

“Yeah, seriously,” Stiles says. He can hear his voice rising. “You’re in Duelling Club with him, you must talk to him sometimes— dude, come on, can you just give me a straight answer?”

Danny’s shoulders are shaking. He’s laughing, the jerk.

“Okay,” Stiles admits. “Poor choice of words. But—”

“I think,” Danny manages after he finally gets himself under control, mirth leaking out at the edges of his voice, “I think you should talk to Derek about that.”

“So is that a yes?” Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Madam Finch crossing the library toward him in a swirl of dark robes, an annoyed expression on her face. “Danny, come on, is that a yes?”

“Mr. Stilinski,” Madam Finch says, crossing her arms. “Do you have any actual business in my library, other than harassing the other students?”

“I thought it was open to everybody.” Stiles spins to face her, pulling a winning expression onto his face. By the way her eyes narrow, it’s not working on her. “You know, as an edifice of learning and all.”

“It’s open to anybody who is not disrupting the ability of other students to study. A group,” she adds pointedly, “which does not currently include you. Leave, or I’ll remove you.”

Madam Finch is probably a full six inches shorter than Stiles, but he doesn’t doubt her ability to do exactly that. And Danny is clearly not disposed to be helpful. “Fine,” he says finally. “Danny, thanks a lot.”

“Good luck,” Danny says, his voice still choked with laughter, and turns back to his book. Stiles flips off the back of his head, then leaves before Madam Finch can send him flying. Literally.

* * *

So of course the first person he runs into in the corridor outside the library is Derek. _Literally_ runs into; one moment he’s rushing around the corner, his thoughts whirling, and the next he’s bouncing hard off a tall, solid body. He stumbles, nearly falls, and then a strong hand is gripping him by the elbow, steadying him until he can get his feet under him.

“Are you okay?” Derek asks, peering at him. He’s the same height as Stiles now, maybe even a little taller. His hand is warm on Stiles’s arm. He smells really good. “Stiles?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. His face is flaming. “Yeah, I’m okay. Thanks. And sorry, I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

“It’s fine,” Derek says, letting go of Stiles’s arm and stepping back. He clears his throat. “Actually, I was looking for you.”

“You were?”

“Yeah, I, uh.” Derek rubs his knuckles on his thighs, then takes a deep breath. “I was just wondering. Were you going to go to the Yule Ball?”

“I think everybody is going,” Stiles says blankly. “Wait. Are you _asking_ me to the Yule Ball?”

“I,” Derek says, and then his back straightens, like he’s facing a firing squad instead of one furiously blushing and very confused sixth-year Slytherin. Very formally, he says, “Yes. Would you like to go to the Yule Ball with me?”

“Are you messing with me?” Stiles hears his mouth ask, without permission.

“No,” Derek says. His face is impossible to read, but he takes a step back from Stiles, which is probably a bad sign. “I’m not— I wouldn’t—” Stiles can almost see him shrinking in on himself, shoulders slumping, looking suddenly, unnervingly like the plump, awkward first-year boy he met on the Hogwarts Express. “I’m sorry. Look, forget I asked. I’ll just—”

“No, no, hey, no, that’s not where I was going with this at all,” Stiles says quickly, grabbing at Derek’s shoulders before he can try to make an escape. They’re warm and solid through his shirt, and Derek freezes like he suddenly turned to stone, eyes wide. “Look, I’m an idiot. Like, seriously, I’m so dense, I should rent my head out as an impact drill—”

“You’re not making any sense,” Derek says, but he’s holding still beneath Stiles’s hands, those pretty green eyes scanning Stiles’s face like he can find something there that might explain him, which, like, good luck there, Stiles himself can only make sense of maybe fifty percent of his own brain on a good day.

“Let me break it down for you,” Stiles says, and then he wraps one hand around the back of Derek’s neck, pulls him down, and kisses him on the lips.

It’s soft and careful. Derek’s mouth tastes peppermint-sweet, and he’s warm and solid against Stiles, and when he lifts a hand to hesitantly cup Stiles’s jaw, Stiles makes a noise that’s completely embarrassing.

When they break apart, Derek looks like he’s been smacked upside the head with something heavy, wide-eyed and stunned. His mouth is very red.

“Yes,” Stiles says. His hands are still on Derek’s cheeks. He’s beaming like an idiot, and he doesn’t even care. He can see something that looks like slow-dawning hope on Derek’s face, and it might just be the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. “To clarify. Yes, I would like to go to the Yule Ball with you. And I would also like to go to Hogsmeade with you, and hold hands and be embarrassingly sappy so all our friends make fun of us, and maybe come visit you over the summer, and right now—” He takes a breath, stops himself before he can actually, like, propose marriage, since Derek looks shocked enough as it is. “Right now I would really, really like it if I could kiss you again.”

“Oh,” Derek says. His smile is like the sun coming out from behind the clouds. And then, “Yeah. I’d like that. All of that.”

“Yeah?” Stiles says, grinning. “Good. Come here.”

Smiling, Derek obeys.


End file.
